


Akuma De Morte

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 悪魔とドルチェ | Akuma to Dolce
Genre: AU Loosely based on Akuma To Dolce, Attractive Voldemort, Demon AU, Demon Voldemort, Demons, Demons will give you anything for a slice o' cake, Harry Done Mess Up, Harry is a massive dork, Hogwarts is a summoning school, Is this fluff? I really don't know, Loosely follows the events of Harry Potter, M/M, Occasional British spelling - sorry :(, Pentagram Designs, Summoner Harry Potter, Summoning Au, and Voldemort totally knows it, because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:30:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: In which Harry opts to fully ignore common sense (and law) by summoning Lord Voldemort, the most feared Lord Demon of all, and manages to rope in Hermione in the process (of course). Too bad Lord Voldemort doesn't plan on playing by Harry's rules.A demon AU very loosely based off of Akuma To Dolce, a cute manga about summoning (no prior knowledge necessary).





	1. The Summoning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is a little idea that kept niggling at me until I wrote it. It's probably going to have about 3 chapters and it's mostly silly and please don't take it seriously, because it's really not ;) 
> 
> As a bit of backstory: So there’s this adorable short manga called Akuma To Dolce about a high school girl who summons minor demons to help her out around the house as her parents are overseas for work. Summoning is an old family secret and the trick to getting demons to do one’s wishes is to offer them delicious sweets – turns out, demons have a wicked sweet tooth and will do just about anything for a freshly baked pastry! She then accidentally summons a demon lord and shenanigans ensue. This story was inspired by that but, of course, it’s going to be a bit darker than the manga (I really can’t help myself). I hope you enjoy :)

Harry frowned as he inspected the chalk pentagram on the ceiling of his lounge room. There was something… _Wrong_. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and cocked his head, inspecting the design. He looked back down at the blueprints in his hands, holding it further away to study the full image.

“Oh!” Harry gasped. He jumped up on a dining chair and wiped out a small section of the chalk, redrawing a line with four zigzags instead of six. The pentagram sizzled suddenly, a bolt of power racing through the chalk outlines and glowing briefly red. The design crackled for a moment, smoking and branding the outline into the wood of his ceiling.

“Gotcha,” Harry smirked, hopping back off the chair and stepping back to admire his handywork.

The pentagram was nearly the size of the entire lounge room ceiling space, almost twenty square metres of intricate, painstaking art. It had been a work in progress up until now, one that he’d been researching for nearly eight months. Harry had spent a good majority of the research process just trying to even find evidence of the _existence_ of such a pentagram, let alone the actual design. He’d had to invent quite a bit extra as most of the designs he found were half-destroyed (for a very good reason, too) and though Harry’s powerful enough to fuel twenty of these pentagrams (a no easy feat), he’s absolutely rubbish at designing them.

Which is where his best friend and resident genius Hermione Granger came into play.

“That is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” Hermione said tearfully, hands pressed into her cheeks as she stared up lovingly at the ceiling space.

Harry turned to grin at the young woman who stood in the entrance way of the lounge room, looking up at the ceiling with reverent awe. He imagined the expression of adulation on Hermione’s face was exactly how most parents looked when they met their newborn baby for the first time.

“You’re an absolute _genius_ , ‘Mione,” Harry laughed, his lips tugging into a wide grin. “Entire thinktanks would never have even been able to imagine something like this, let alone reconstruct an entire design using small scraps and sheer brainpower.”

Hermione didn’t even bother refuting Harry’s praise; it was certainly a landmark development. Hermione almost wished that she could be able to publish her design, but there was a very good reason all copies of this particular pentagram design had been hunted down, shredded, burnt to ashes, and then scattered to the four corners of the globe. When Harry first brought this problem to her, Hermione had been thrilled. Nearly three months into the research, though, Hermione began to feel uneasy. She thinks she’ll remember that fight for the rest of her life.

* * *

_Five months ago_

Hermione scanned the quarter piece of the design she had managed to put together and blinked in surprise. Perhaps she put it together wrong? Reconstructing a pentagram design off only handwritten observational notes (from hundreds of years ago, to boot) was a bit like trying to find and re-piece one full page out of a million bits of shredded paper. There were so many variables – what if the observer accidentally wrote the _iota_ symbol instead of _mena_? What if the _lipson_ was upside down? What would happen if the _senai_ was concave instead of convex? There were at least two thousand different possibilities in this one quarter part of the design alone. It was driving Hermione absolutely _nuts._

She loved every minute of it.

Except, of course, for now. Normally this would be a celebratory event. An entire quarter finished! Sure, there would be adjustments once she completed the each of the other three quarters, but this was a fantastic foundation to work from. Yet when Hermione stepped back from the design, having painstakingly followed the shaky handwritten Latin instructions of a monk from the fourteen hundreds, Hermione finally saw what she was creating.

“ _Harry James Potter!_ ” Hermione bellowed.

The young man in question came flying into the room, skidding on his heels as he prepared a quick hand symbol for containment.

“Are you alright?! Did you accidentally summon anything? Why are you looking at me like that?” Harry began fiercely before his voice slowly withered away under the furious gaze of Hermione.

“This is for a _Lord_!” Hermione yelled, smashing an angry fist on the table. _All that work down the toilet_.

“Uh –” Harry began slowly, itching his arm unsurely.

“You _knew_?” Hermione pressed accusingly, stepping back from her best friend. _He wouldn’t._

“Well, kind of? I was hoping it wasn’t a Lord Pentagram ‘cause that would be really messed up. But I did have an inkling,” Harry muttered quietly, looking down at his shoes.

“Harry Potter,” Hermione gasped, appalled. “Possession of a Lord Pentagram is a _class one felony_. For which the punishment is _death._ Sure, most people wouldn’t know the damned difference between a Lord Pentagram and a Pilgon Pentagram, but that’s _half the reason they’re illegal_. You could accidentally summon the death of an entire country!”

“I know, I know, I know – and I’m so sorry for not telling you. I was just terrified that if I did, you wouldn’t have even started it and now that you’ve gotten a quarter done, I can work from there. I’m _so sorry_ for using you like this Hermione, I swear,” Harry begged, wringing his wrists, “But I couldn’t start from barely any information like you can. I’m good enough at design architecting to work with _something_ , but you’re a thousand times past my level.”

“You have _incriminated_ me, Harry!” Hermione shouted, feeling tears welling in her eyes despite feeling _furious_. “Even if you did the rest of the work, I would still be _responsible_ too. Don’t you see that?”

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking horribly repentant but he had that gleam in his eye that Hermione knows very, very well. Harry is sorry that it _came to this_ , but he’s not sorry _that_ _he did it_. And that could only mean one thing.

“Does this have anything to do with… You Know Who?” Hermione said suddenly, feeling a pit in her stomach. _Don’t say yes, don’t you dare say yes,_ she chanted in her mind.

“Uh. Well… Yeah, kind of?” Harry answered.

Hermione threw an inkwell at Harry and he squawked, quickly sidestepping the pottle and flinching away from the splashing liquid. That only made Hermione more furious. _Quick little wanker_ , she thought viciously.

“If you tell me that this is the _actual personalised pentagram for_ _Lord Voldemort_ ,” Hermione began scathingly, “I will _personally_ see you turned over to the Unspeakables to have your goddamn _head evaluated, you twat!”_

Harry paled at Hermione’s words and she felt a small sting of satisfaction at that. Good. He got how serious the situation was.

“But I won’t, because you’re basically a goddamn brother to me even though you’re a _rash moron_ ,” Hermione snarled, sitting back down at the study desk.

“W-what?” Harry stuttered, eyes wide and now gleaming with barely restrained tears.

“You should have _asked me,_ you absolute imbecile. If I had known who this was for, we could have exponentially sped this process up! I’ve been sorting through all kinds of different designs and individual signs, when I should have just been focusing on Lord Pentagrams for reference!” Hermione reprimanded.

Harry gaped at her like a fish out of water.

“Harry,” Hermione finally stated coolly, the hysteria in her tone now completely gone. “You’re my best friend. We’ve been through thick and thin. Do you really think I would have said no? I know that you were just trying to protect me by not telling me anything and hoping that when the Aurors came, they’d see that I was completely unaware. But ignorance is not a plea, not when it comes to Lord Pentagrams. Especially now that I found out what it is and then _didn’t turn you in._ So stop trying to misguidedly protect me and _let me in_.”

Harry nodded solemnly and then told her the whole story. Hermione sometimes wonders if she should have ever asked.

* * *

_Present_

“This is going to be one _hell_ of a summoning,” Harry joked, winking at Hermione.

“Merlin, Harry. That joke got old in _first_ year,” Hermione groaned, digging her palms into her eyes. After finishing the ceiling design, they had gotten started on the floor design. It had taken nearly a week to finish drawing the first design but the practice had sped their drawing and they completed the second design within four days – with the exception of the final joining line. The pair had needed to perfectly (to the millimetre) line up the two pentagrams to create a perfect cage when activated and they spent a fifth day ensuring that everything was perfectly aligned.

At last, they were satisfied with their work and Harry and Hermione grew solemn as they stared at the last joining line. It was a central foundational line of the entire pentagram that would seal the design and burn it onto the floor; without it, the entire design was nothing more than a decorative chalk mural. The basic foundation of a pentagram was a five-point star drawn in a perfect circle with all points touching the circle in precision lengths from one another; these basic designs called the weakest, smallest of demons who didn’t even feel forced to come, but rather were low level intelligence and would allow themselves be summoned out of curiosity. The extra drawings of symbols (or ‘design’) added to the foundational pentagram then created intent and often forced the summoning of a specific-class demon or one particular demonic being if the summoner knew the right design formation.

But a monstrosity like _this_ , a specific Lord Pentagram – it required an entire host of complex symbols and a massive power source to back up the charge. Between Hermione’s brain and natural talent for Ancient Runes as well as Harry’s unmatched magical core – there was certainly no question of ‘if’ they could do this. But whether it was a good idea to forcefully summon a Lord-level demon… That was an entirely different conversation. Who knew if the demon could just burn the entire house down in an instant and unbind himself from being trapped within the confines of the pentagram? A loose Lord Demon was no small concern. And the last time _this_ particular one got loose, he burnt down half of England. And that was just under two decades ago, so the authorities were still smarting over the wreckage.

Hermione and Harry wouldn’t even be questioned should they be caught doing this. They would be Kissed by Dementors within five minutes of the discovery and then the Aurors would backtrack their work to investigate whether they managed to make initial contact with the demon. Kill or fatally maim the summoner, the demon’s bond is broken to the human plane and it is sent back to whatever level of hell it was pulled from. Voldemort’s summoner was never located last time, something that had never happened before. The summoner was being protected and nobody knew by whom, but the authorities knew the protector was powerful enough to evade every tactic that had worked when locating a summoner up until then.

In the end, the monster _chose_ to leave, reportedly amused by the humans’ attempts to stop it. It could have kept going if it wanted to. The resulting horror from this situation drove a revolution of summoning law. All Lord level pentagrams were ordered to be obliterated and someone so much as caught with one in their library (which was most of the ancient families, as Lord pentagrams were considered a pureblood’s pride to hand down to their children) was convicted of harbouring a Lord Demon. Just by _having_ a pentagram of that design.

“We’re in so much trouble,” Hermione sighed. “This design is way too powerful. When you eventually leave here, you’ll never be able to get it out of the wood. You’ll need to tear the boards down, salt and burn them, and then replace the flooring and hope the magic hasn’t imprinted the building so much that it just recreates itself.”

“That… Would really suck.” Harry sighed. “I mean, I own this flat. But still, this means I can probably never sell it. I could move into another space, though, and use this flat as a ritual room.”

Hermione threw Harry an annoyed glare. “You really have way too much money for a nineteen-year-old.”

“I would rather have a family than a fortune,” Harry muttered, looking down to the design at their feet.

Hermione sighed heavily. “Of course, Harry. But no amount of Lord-level demon summonings will get them back.”

“Hermione,” Harry stated. “I know that. I’m not… _Delusional_ ,” he emphasised carefully, sincerely. “I really just need to know who summoned this demon the first time, who sent it after my parents. Dumbledore won’t tell me and I suspect that he’s the one who protected the summoner last time.”

Hermione gaped at Harry. “He – Dumbledore _wouldn’t_ , would he?” She gasped, appalled.

“I really don’t know, Hermione. This is the only way we’re going to find out. I feel like I’ll never be able to rest until I catch the person who did this,” Harry admitted. “I’ve been angry my whole life. I was raised by a family that _loathed_ me for being a summoner, just because of one person’s actions. I need to know if it was intentional or accidental or _whatever_. I don’t think it will make me feel _better_ , per se, but I won’t know until I try.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “I get it, Harry. But this demon marked you when you were a baby. That means that he can touch you, remember. You don’t have the same protections that the other summoners do. I mean, it’s basically beaten into us from day one at Hogwarts. _Don’t ever let a demon touch or mark you, because then they can use you as an anchor to the human realm_. So you’re already starting with your hands tied behind your back. If it figures out who you are – you could cause another situation.”

“I know, Hermione,” Harry confirmed softly, grateful rather than annoyed. Hermione really does care for him, more so than anyone else in the world. He slung an arm over her shoulders and smiled as she rested her head against his chest.

“Let’s get a good night’s rest in before we tie this up,” Hermione yawned. “We’ve been working nonstop. Once we get the summoning completed and speak to the demon, we’ll need to immediately break down the pentagram and hope it doesn’t figure out a way to reactivate it before we’ve finished the breakdown. So, tomorrow’s going to be a really long day.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, a large yawn stretching his jaw as well. “Wanna stay here?” He offered.

“Oh, no,” Hermione replied quickly. “I’ve got to feed Crookshanks. And, no offence, but there’s no way I’d sleep with this thing in my lounge room, even incomplete.”

“Don’t be such a wuss, ‘Mione,” Harry teased, rolling his eyes as the girl waved a one-finger salute in his face before throwing floo powder in his fireplace and disappearing from sight. Once Hermione had left, Harry let himself shift uncomfortably. There was a truth about never letting yourself be defenceless in front of a pentagram. Granted, that was for the finished ones. But this pentagram was already strongly reeking of magic and it wasn’t even complete. Harry dreaded how powerful it would be once they finalised it. Hopefully the neighbours wouldn’t feel it through Harry’s protection wards.

Harry decided to keep an eye on the pentagram just in case, so he pulled a pillow and blanket into the lounge room and laid halfway through the doorway, careful not to smudge their chalk drawings. Harry didn’t even bother changing out of his day clothes, too exhausted to slip out of his muggle jeans and hoody into something more comfortable. He managed to watch the pentagram for a total of two minutes before he was slipping into a deep slumber.

* * *

Had Harry managed to stay awake for another ten minutes, he would have been horrified to see the small stub of chalk on the floor slowly begin to roll towards the centre of the pentagram, bouncing as if pulled by an invisible string.

But Harry was deep within a dream when that happened and wasn’t aware of the chalk slowly scratching across the floor, finalising the last line required to complete the pentagram.

* * *

Harry awoke to the feeling of overwhelming black magic pressing him down into the wood floor. It was as if the house had been filled to the brim with murky port water, suffocating him and completely disorienting him even in his own house. He shuddered as he realised he was still laying in the doorway to the lounge room, his head within a few inches of the pentagram. This was most certainly not a dream, despite feeling like a nightmare.

Harry kept completely still as the black magic pulsed, enhancing the feeling of gravity in his small flat and pressing him harder into the floorboards.

Harry stifled a groan, not sure if the demon had figured out where he was just yet. Obviously it had managed to complete the pentagram on its own (though he had _genuinely_ thought rumours of such a thing were mostly insidious gossip spread over campfires to frighten little children) and had summoned itself, using the human it marked last time as an anchor to the human realm.

Who happened to be Harry himself. Harry moaned as he felt his magic drain dramatically, his core consumed like a parasitic worm had attached itself to it and was now sucking every last bit of energy from his being.

 _This is bad. This is really, really bad,_ Harry thought frantically. If _he_ had summoned the demon, he could make it go away on a command. If the demon summoned _itself_ – well, the only way to get rid of it would be for the anchor tying it to the human world to die. Another bad part of being the anchor was that Harry had an abnormally strong and resilient magical core, which was normally perfect for summoning, but if a demon had control of that – well, Harry should probably save a lot of lives right now and kill himself before the demon sucked him dry.

 _Fuuuck_ , Harry thought miserably, curling up on the floor as he felt another bolt of energy ripped from his magical core. _Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?_

And then, suddenly, without warning – it was all over. The oppressive, alien demon magic let up suddenly and Harry inhaled sharply, his slowly compressing lungs filling with oxygen and he coughed. The lights from a few candles burning throughout his flat lit up the rooms once more, the black murkiness no longer blocking his sight.

Harry kept completely still, knowing that not even a foot from the top of his head was the barrier holding in a Lord-level demon. And not just _any_ Lord demon. _Lord Voldemort_.

Harry really, really hopes that the pentagrams on the ceiling and floor completely match up because even the slightest mistake would shatter the container under the strength of this demon’s will.

“Good evening,” a deep voice said, the creature’s words clipped in a slight accent and its tone light and polite.

Harry felt every single muscle of his being tense. _It can speak_. Of course it could _speak_ , Harry knew it could, and he admonished himself for the stupid thought. Lord level demons were so powerful and advanced that they gained the power to imitate humans, to take their form and speak their language.

The strongest demon Harry’s ever summoned was under the watchful eye of his professors during his NEWT exams in seventh year, a Pilgon that could string sentences together and bargained with Harry. It was an especially strong Pilgon, well on its way to becoming a Munan and then a Lord provided it survived the ruthlessness of hell for another couple millennia. And they very rarely did. If the Munan didn’t murder and consume a strong Pilgon, then a Lord normally would. They don’t take challenges to their rule very well.

“I know you are awake, little one. Why don’t you introduce yourself? I assume you know who I am, if you’re the one who drew my call,” the voice continued, sounding slyly amused.

 _Oh, fuck_. It was capable of pretending to be _nice_ too. That was a surefire sign of complete insidiousness. All demons Harry met were incapable of hiding their baser desires, especially in the face of making a deal. Of course, Harry knew _intellectually_ that Lords were advanced beyond belief, almost gods in comparison to humans, but he’s seen others summon Munan before and even they struggled with playacting, for they had very little patience for it. For there to be _such a difference_ in power between the three tiers – it was horrifying.

Harry slowly, so very slowly, withdrew away from the pentagram by sliding over the floor and through the doorway further into the hallway. It was extremely rare but not unheard of for Lord demons to be capable of magic within a foot outside of a pentagram cage. Harry really did not want to lose his head to this creature. _Though, joke’s on him – if he kills me, he disappears too._

But Harry still wanted to perhaps explore the possibility of not getting decapitated just yet.

“Don’t be rude,” the deep voice teased coyly. “I see you moving. Come now, childe, what’s your name?”

The words were said oddly in that strange accent and Harry felt his mouth open and twist into a familiar feeling of how he says his name. Harry jerked upwards quickly and clapped a hand over his mouth, staring down the hallway of his flat with wide, horrified eyes and trembling as his back was exposed to the demon behind him.

The demon _compulsed him_. From almost _two feet away_ from its pentagram border. _Holy shit,_ Harry thought, suddenly realising exactly how fucked he was. If this thing told him to jump on one foot, he’s not sure how long he’d be able to hold out. If it told him to break the pentagram – well, say goodbye to modern society.

“You’re clever,” the demon commended gently.

“Go back to hell,” Harry replied hoarsely, feeling as if he had been hollowed out and burnt from the inside. Harry couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look at the thing.

“That’s not very _nice_ ,” the demon replied sharply. “Is that how you welcome your guests to your home?”

Harry flinched at those words. At least he’d managed to get the demon riled, which usually resulted in them being incapable of acting and lying.

“Apologies. Would you like a tart?” Harry asked his hallway, still refusing to look over his shoulder.

Silence met his question. Harry smiled, then. It wasn’t a grin, but rather a small lifting of the corners of his lips. _Aha, got you_.

And it was so preposterous, really. But demons have the _biggest_ sweet tooth, something that made Harry laugh and laugh and _laugh_ when he found out. And by sweet tooth, that’s as in there have been records of Lord demons taking over nations on behalf of other rulers on the promise of _cake_. It seems like hell doesn’t have much to offer demons in terms of pleasure and most demons couldn’t care less for the offerings of humans. But offer it something that it could get a short burst of enjoyment in _right that moment_ and most demons would be willing to bring you the world on a platter.

Harry recalls every word of Professor Lupin’s description of summon exchanges: _‘Instant rewards, pleasure, sinful behaviour – all of these things seduce a demon and encourage an immediate contract. The faster you can make an exchange, the better. Know what you want before you summon and keep the conversation on track of sweets. The demon will begin to focus on the reward only and then, once they have agreed, strike with your request. But they must agree to an amount of sweets first, otherwise they’ll try and bargain more out of you in exchange for your request_.’

Again, it was so absurdly preposterous. But Harry has also seen humans do horrific things in the name of money so, as a human, he probably couldn’t really judge another entire species for their greed.

“I’ll agree to a tart if you turn around,” the demon bargained smoothly.

Harry laughed in disbelief. “You want me to give you _two things_ for nothing? Give you food and listen to your instructions? Without getting anything myself? Who on _earth_ does that work on?”

“You’d be surprised what humans agree to without thinking,” the creature replied slyly.

Great. So not only was it intelligent, but it clearly had an impressive history of bargaining. And, again, Harry intellectually _knew_ that, but it was so different to know something and to experience it in person. Most Lord demons had existed for nearly three, if not four thousand years – _at least_. They had been summoned constantly over the millennia, to the point that a few Lord demons managed to escape and _voilà_ , welcome to the fall of Greece or the sacking of Constantinople or the collapse of Rome or, hell, the _Dark Ages_. And then, when all the sweets and sugar and wealth had been decimated, the Lord demons return back to hell to wait for humanity to recover and _then they do it again._

Harry paused, took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. There was no amount of manipulations or rewards he could offer that would truly entice this demon. It was playing with him, entertaining itself. It would never go back to hell, not until it got bored of bothering humans. And that could take – literally – years.

So Harry now had a demon living in his lounge room and no special words that could possibly return it to hell seeing as it used Harry (not that it knew that just yet) as an anchor. _Oh, shite,_ Harry thought _. I have to pretend I don’t know how it’s here._ Harry felt so stupid; if he’d already forgotten something as monumental as that, he was _most certainly_ going to slip up in front of this being.

“How are you here?” Harry questioned quietly, not doubting for a moment that it could hear him.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” the demon responded smugly, not missing a beat.

Thank god. It didn’t know _he_ was the anchor. If it did, it would be able to enact an entire list of manipulations to get Harry to release it from the pentagram, magic core torture included. At this stage, it probably thought its host is still some baby somewhere out there, slowly suffering from magical exhaustion. Demons did not have a good grasp of human time, something about time moving differently in hell, and this demon would be as careful as possible not to accidentally kill off its anchor by taking too much magic.

Though, judging by the agony Harry experienced when unwillingly fuelling this beast’s summoning, a person with even a minutely smaller core would have died instantly by the sheer speed of the creature’s consumption. A summoner would have been able to regulate the power, but a demon can’t control its desires, not even one like this.

 _Of course,_ Harry thought. _Offer it something it wants_.

“I’ll turn around and properly address you, _and_ give you a tart, if you tell me your name,” Harry suggested, creating a small bargain to get the ball rolling.

“My name?” The demon huffed in laughter. “You know my name, childe. I’ll even say it without a bargain. I’m Lord Voldemort, _at_ _your service_ ,” it mocked teasingly.

 _It gave up information for free_ , Harry thought numbly, and it even snarked him in the process. _It didn’t even take the offer and that’s a customary first trade that demons can’t resist._ That – that was unheard of, for a demon to turn down a sweet for something as simple as a _name_. This demon must be beyond advanced. It was practically not even a demon anymore. _No, fuck that_ , Harry berated himself. _It’s showing off. It wants me to believe I have no power in the bargain. I’m sure it’s going absolutely nuts over there. Keep strong._

Why wouldn’t it take the bargain? _Why?_ Harry thought to himself stressfully. _Because Voldemort isn’t really its name and if it agreed, the bargain would force him to comply_ , he realised suddenly.

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry whispered reverently. This demon had just accidentally given up information that it didn’t want known and Harry had _caught it_ ; it clearly underestimated Harry.

“Yes?” The demon replied slyly, charmingly.

“What’s your real name?” Harry asked his hallway, tensing in preparation for retaliatory magic.

Silence met his question. Harry stared straight ahead, unsure if the demon was trying to attack him or bait him by failing to reply at all.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t continue talking to this demon without _seeing_ it. Harry has always been compulsive and too curious for his own good and the fact he’s managed to withhold from acting rashly for nearly ten whole minutes is practically a new record for him.

Harry peeked behind himself and froze, ice exploding in his stomach.

The demon had broken out of the pentagram. _How_ , Harry didn’t know. It sat in one of Harry’s old, worn settees, watching Harry with amusement from across the room.

It was… Well, it was _gorgeous_.

The demon took the shape of a tall, lithe man, strong forearms displaying toned muscle where its white button-down shirt had been rolled back to its elbows. Its face was sharp and aristocratic, all high cheekbones, strong brow, and a straight nose. Harry blinked in surprise as he realised the creature had two curled protrusions sprouting from the sides of its immaculately combed head of hair, the spiralling horns similar in kind to a ram’s. Perhaps most compelling of all, though, was the blood red of its eyes, an inhuman hue so violently startling that Harry jumped the moment he made eye contact with the thing.

It was quite possibly the most attractive person Harry has ever seen in his entire life.

 _Of course,_ Harry thought grumpily. _What a vain thing it is._

The demon smirked, sharp canines revealed at the quirk of its lips, and crossed its legs so that his right ankle rested on his left knee, looking for all intents and purposes to be a benevolent king sitting upon his throne.

It was a spectacular act, one that Harry would have believed if he hadn’t glanced at the pentagram and noticed not one line was broken or even remotely _smudged_. It would have to be inspected thoroughly at a later date, but Harry is positive that the demon is still trapped inside. Harry has laboured over this design for _eight months_. Harry knows that there’s no way the demon has managed to step out just by glancing at the pattern; he’s become so familiar with the design that’s he’s sure he can draw it _without the blueprint_ s.

This man in his lounge room – it’s a projection. This demon is _much_ stronger than Harry ever thought possible, perhaps even in a league of its own beyond Lord.

“How did you escape?” Harry asked the demon lightly, not willing to give away what he knew.

“Your hair smudged a line in your sleep, I presume,” the demon answered, lips curled in amusement. It had a very polished British accent, though slightly off with another influence Harry didn’t recognise. It could be a hell accent, for all Harry knows, though.

“That’s unfortunate,” Harry sighed. “We worked so very hard on it, too.”

“We?” The demon clarified, tilting its head with unnatural smoothness.

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t possibly build this on my own, not after all your blueprints were burned,” Harry assured the monster in a sincere tone. “So there’s someone out there, waiting for me to give the signal. If things go south – well,” Harry laughed, waving his hand in the air as he bluffed nonchalance. “The whole building goes _boom_.”

Voldemort didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked as if he was made out of marble, for he was so still that Harry couldn’t even catch any evidence it was breathing. Of course, demons didn’t need to consume human air, but it was odd to watch this creature forget to be human when it spent so much time and effort into completing the act.

“My designs have been destroyed?” Voldemort asked at last, voice inflectionless.

 _Ah_ , Harry thought to himself, hiding a smile. _It’s terrified of never getting called again_.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed lightly. “After your rather spectacular show last time, we humans got spooked. Everything Lord related was shredded, purified, burned, and then scattered. We just barely managed to create this pentagram from the last remaining testimonials of your design in the entire world. This building goes up in flames and this will be the last time you step foot on earth.”

“Then you have made a mistake most grave, little human,” Voldemort intoned deeply, dangerously. “Because I will haunt this earth until every single last human has been destroyed.” The attractive features of the demon twisted as it smiled darkly, an expression so cruel and demonic on a human’s face that Harry wondered why the demon went through the effort of pretending to be human at all.

“Well, I’m going to say that I highly doubt that,” Harry retorted. “Especially seeing as you haven’t even managed to put one foot outside of that pentagram.”

The image stared at Harry blankly for a moment before it wavered slightly and then completely disappeared.

“You are not as stupid as you look,” Voldemort said in amusement, appearing back in the pentagram cage suddenly as his magic trick dissolved. To Harry’s utter surprise, he _still looked the same_. So it wasn’t just a fake image. The damned demon actually could look like that.

Harry scowled. It seemed infinitely unfair that an evil creature such as a Lord demon could have such a perfect, angelic face. _Though_ , he mused, _it would make perfect bait for an unsuspecting victim._

“Fine, what do you want?” Voldemort said at last, clearly beginning to get annoyed with being mostly ignored by his only source of entertainment.

Harry reached forward and touched the air where the barrier between the pentagram on the ceiling and the floorboards began. A golden shield shimmered suddenly into sight, his fingers pressing against an immovable magical barrier. For a demon to be able to project its magic _beyond_ this forcefield – well, Harry couldn’t even begin to comprehend how oppressive and powerful its magic would be in person without a shield.

“A name, please,” Harry replied softly, still focusing on that golden barrier. It would only display if agitated and Harry’s touch was enough to concern the barrier. In a way, it protected summoners from letting themselves get fully manipulated as well. The only way for Harry to break through this magical barrier would be to sacrifice a touch of his blood; usually a small cut on his thumb and smudged on the golden barrier or around the rim of the pentagram would suffice. For much lower level demons, Harry doesn’t even bother drawing two pentagrams; just one for summoning the demon and then he could capture its attention by bargaining. He didn’t normally need to bother with the cage like this. Harry is suddenly immensely grateful it’s there, visible, available to touch.

“Just a name, darling?” Voldemort asked softly and Harry flinched as he realised the demon had approached him without noticing it, and Harry backed up quickly to keep at least three feet between himself and the barrier. The creature stood just on the other side of the barrier, head cocked as he appraised Harry. Harry didn’t understand how it could stand the inevitably immense weight of those massive horns on its head, yet it moved as if they didn’t even exist. It was also a good foot taller than him, too, perhaps reaching nearly seven feet in height.

“Just a name,” Harry confirmed, tucking his tingling fingers into the pockets of his jeans.

“Who would you like me to name?” Voldemort enquired, watching Harry through hooded eyes.

“I would like a price first, please,” Harry requested, trying to keep as close to his summoning training script as possible.

“No,” Voldemort contradicted. “Each name has a price. If you ask me for a name that is worth more than what you promise, then the deal will be soured.”

“Names can’t possibly vary in importance that much,” Harry retorted quickly, trying to stamp down the annoyance building in his chest. _Stay level headed_ , Harry tried to remind himself. It didn’t work.

“You’d be surprised, summoner,” Voldemort whispered coolly, red eyes glittering in the dim light.

“Fine,” Harry stated, feeling himself grow impatient. He really should be stepping back now to regroup and then try to re-bargain, but this demon is completely irking Harry. Despite attending summoning school for seven years, no one had ever prepared him for a demon like this. Harry’s not even sure if most humans _know_ there are demons like this. “I want the name of the being that summoned you the most recent last time you were here, when you escaped and sacked half of Britain.”

Voldemort grinned. It was a horrible, toxic thing, all sharp edges and smug cruelty.

“That’s worth a year’s supply of homemade desserts. The desserts must be at least one to three-star restaurant quality, they must be fresh daily, and there must always be at least five items no smaller than your palm given to me each day,” Voldemort stated sharply, eying Harry with narrowed eyes. “Three hundred and sixty five days of me coming and going each day, collecting my food, and then leaving when I deem fit.”

Harry stared at Voldemort. _Desserts?_ This demon could ask for anything, and he’s asked for _desserts_? It’s clearly a headfuck. There must be something else going on.

Instead of saying, ‘No, you dickhead,’ the words that come out of Harry’s mouth are, “Okay, deal.”

Harry stares at Voldemort in surprise. He hadn’t meant to say that. But it was almost as if he couldn’t help himself, being _so close_ to finding out who ordered the hit on his parents.

“Deal,” Voldemort crooned, grinning widely now. “I will tell you the name in three hundred and sixty five days provided you feed me desserts per the terms agreed upon every single day. Failure to meet those standards will mark the day as invalid and push the end date back.”

“Next-next _year_?” Harry squawked, appalled. “That’s not the deal! You must give me the name _now!_ ”

“And risk you not holding up your end of the bargain after sending me back to hell and then destroying my last pentagram?” Voldemort questioned sceptically. “No, I don’t think so. Now move along, I expect you want today to be the first of your year.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Harry said slowly, realising he’d been _completely done_ _over_ by a Lord Demon. An extremely _illegal_ demon that was contracted to show up in his lounge on a _daily basis_ for _one full year_. “I don’t even know how to bake.”

“See?” Voldemort stated accusingly, inspecting the nails on his right hand nonchalantly. “I sincerely doubt you were going to bother learning for me, too. Though I should mention that failing to meet my requirements will result in me consuming your magic until you drop dead.”

Harry stared up into those blood red eyes and saw nothing but cold amusement there.

“Now get baking, human,” Voldemort commanded, conjuring a chair for himself inside the pentagram cage and settling into it regally. “I said _one to three-star_ quality, and by that I meant according to the Michelin star system, which I didn’t have to specify seeing as _intent_ is also clearly a part of any bargain. Anything less will be considered a breach of contract. Thankfully you’re too stupid to have caught that. Chop, chop.”

 _What the fuck have I done?_ Harry thought numbly, realising he may have just royally messed everything up.


	2. The Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finds a loophole and Voldemort strikes a nerve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I have written four chapters instead of three - I'll be posting the other two later this week :)  
> Enjoy!

The first thing Harry did once he came back to himself (after briefly staring at Voldemort in dull horror) was trigger the emergency protocols on his house wards. Harry closed his eyes and reached his magic out, feeling the heavy plated wards snap into place and block the entrances, apparition point, and floo. His home had now become a catacomb, a place only Harry himself could enter and leave upon will.

“That seems a bit unnecessary,” Voldemort tutted, red eyes brighter than smelting steel. “If I wanted in or out, I hardly doubt a few protection spells will stop me.”

“Yeah?” Harry muttered as he walked down the hallway, going far, far away from the demon’s stupid beautiful face. “Just as soon as you get out of that pentagram, you’re unstoppable, huh?” Harry asked himself sarcastically.

Even from the kitchen, Harry could feel Voldemort’s annoyed pulse of magic as his words.

Harry prepared himself a cup of tea and then sat down at his kitchen table numbly. He was so completely exhausted, having worked nearly nineteen hours straight the day before and he had only gotten around ten minutes of sleep before he was interrupted by the demon summoning itself. Which had abused the hell out of his magical core in the process.

Harry felt his brain tingle painfully, a warning sign of magical, physical and mental exhaustion.

He should _never_ have tried to bargain with a Lord Demon in this state of mind. He should have politely dismissed himself, found Hermione, and formulated a plan. But Harry was never one for logic and plans and smarts; sometimes, he found following his gut yielded the best results.

Well, except for right now. Following his gut now resulted in Harry having to see that stupid demon face for well over a year. Well, the contract was at _least_ for a year, provided Harry made desserts between a _One and Three_ Michelin Star restaurant; _impossible for me_ , Harry thought dazedly.

Harry had actually tried to undersell himself with the demon, tell him that he knew little of baking. But, in reality, Harry’s actually pretty decent at it. Since he was old enough to walk, Petunia Dursley plopped Harry in the kitchen and told him to earn his keep through cooking and baking (as well as a whole other host of domestic chores). The Dursleys shouldn’t have been surprised that Harry took to baking like fish to water (it’s in his summoning blood, after all) and, in the end, Harry got a fair amount of experience in the kitchen between ages four and eleven and then the summers of twelve and thirteen.

The last time Harry let himself get pushed around and forced into baking and cooking for someone, Harry had just returned to the Dursley abode from Hogwarts after his second year and was about to turn thirteen. In his rage in response to some extremely inappropriate comments made about his mother and father’s quality of blood and personality, he had accidentally summoned a demon that blew up his Aunt Marge. Harry promptly moved out of the house after that. Thankfully, he had his godfather’s house to live in the summer of the year after, but being homeless for the entirety of that summer had been an experience upon itself.

Harry _hates_ feeling enslaved, _hates_ feeling cornered into baking. It dredges up terrible memories of loneliness and suppressed rage and drafty little cupboards –

 _Wait a minute._ Harry thought abruptly, an idea formulating at the back of his mind and immediately brushing away the dazed cobwebs in his head. _Voldemort said I must provide homemade desserts equivalent to the same quality of a restaurant with either a one, two, or three star Michelin rating. What better way to get a dessert worthy of such a title than to literally get desserts from an actual Michelin star awarded restaurant which handmakes their own wares?_

Harry smiled darkly to himself. Clearly, this demon didn’t know who he was playing with. Harry had spent a good ten years passive aggressively going about his house chores _exactly_ as Aunt Petunia and Vernon told him (a book called ‘ _Amelia Bedelia’_ Harry had discovered in his primary school library had prompted the idea) and Harry sure as hell hadn’t lost the talent for both obeying and infuriating a bossy dickhead.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

“What do you think you are doing?” Voldemort stated, more of a statement than a question. His head cocked to the side effortlessly despite his massive curled horns as he inspected the prettily decorated stack of boxes that Harry had pushed into the pentagram circle.

“Providing desserts,” Harry answered demurely, hiding a wicked smile.

After formulating his plan, Harry had quite cheerily gone to bed at five in the morning (mood so upbeat that he slept rather well, despite the overwhelming scent of black magic and sulphur permeating his poor home) and awoke at some point after dark. He then located the nearest Michelin star restaurant, popped by and ordered five of their freshest, most delicious desserts. Harry was surprised to note that the wizards also had Michelin stars, not just the muggles, and it turns out that flashing his name around (“Takeaway order for Heir Harry Potter, please”) seemed to do the trick, the hostess tripping over herself to seat him at the bar while he awaited his order.

Harry had fortified himself with a nice glass of expensive scotch to celebrate his dastardly plan (during which he remembered that he does _not_ like scotch, but the burning liquid cost him a tiny fortune so he forged ahead with quickly downing it) and he was feeling a little tipsy. Harry doesn’t drink often and he feels like he’s running on little more than fumes at the moment (Harry then remembers he hasn’t eaten in perhaps thirty hours), but the scotch has returned his remaining tattered scraps of Gryffindor bravery and he faces the demon head on in his lounge room.

“These are not homemade,” Voldemort commented blankly.

“No, they’re from a one star Michelin restaurant,” Harry replied gently as if speaking to a particularly slow child, smiling that shitty little smile that he vividly remembers _really_ got under Uncle Vernon’s skin. “And, technically, the restaurant I purchased them from used to be a residential house which was refurbished into a restaurant. So, technically one could say that _yes_ , these are homemade.”

“It’s horrifically rude to not handmake one’s desserts for a bargain,” Voldemort continues, tone inflectionless, as his blood red irises flicker from the prettily designed boxes to Harry’s emerald eyes.

“Just following orders,” Harry replied demurely, eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Besides, it’s terribly subjective to simply _state_ that something has to be of a certain quality,” he continued dismissively, waving a hand. “Now, this way, I can assure you that this is the current standard for a one Michelin star restaurant. Whether or not you are appeased by the quality doesn’t mean anything seeing as this is the standard none the less." Harry widened his eyes in faux innocent as he stared at Voldemort in barely concealed mirth.

And Harry knows it’s horribly rude to do this. Making desserts for a demonic being of this level by hand is an unspoken agreement and act of goodwill in most trades. Whether or not a sorcerer is aware of it, a bit of magic always weaves into a creation, be it potions or pentagrams or even home baking. There has even been a tradition built around handing down recipes in ancient families, beautifully bound books dedicated to baking recipes that have been finely tuned over generations to best serve their demonic summons and fortify bargains.

Harry has such a book in his possession, a gorgeously gold-leaf inlaid tome from the Potter side of his family as well as a lovely compiled stack of delicious baking recipes from his mother’s side, which was more of a family hobby than for actual rituals seeing as the Evans side of his blood is wholly muggle with the exception of his magical mum.

But Harry sure as hell isn’t going to go scouring those precious recipes just so this demon can cruelly shoot them down and postpone the end date to their bargain. _Eat me,_ Harry thinks in vengeful glee, staring Voldemort down.  

“Eat you? _Gladly_ ,” Voldemort replies smoothly, baritone voice enticing as his eyes narrow in barely concealed amusement.

“W-w- _what_?” Harry stammered, backing up quickly and flinching when his spine slammed into the wall of the lounge room. “Did-did you just _read my mind_?” He asked in disbelief, flabbergasted.

Voldemort quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow, a vicious smirk baring his sharp canines.

 _Holy shit this demon is –_ Harry began to think in panic before he immediately shut that thought down. Harry quickly dropped his eyes to the floor and instead inspected the little boxes of desserts just within the barrier of the pentagram, trying to sooth his scattered thoughts.

Harry has heard of this technique before, a powerful attack achieved by high ranking demons. _Legilimency_. Harry has always been _terrible_ at the mental arts but he’s tried his best at Occlumency, the defensive technique of this art, which is more commonly used to achieve an animagus form. Harry’s slowly getting there but he’s certainly not good enough to defend himself against a demon that can use the skill so effortlessly that he didn’t even alert Harry to his mental attack until he literally _repeated Harry’s thoughts_.

“Eat your snack, demon. We’re done for today. Show yourself out when you’re done,” Harry snarled Voldemort, careful to keep his eyes on the floorboards as he scooched along the lounge room back wall towards the doorway.

“I thought you just offered yourself up instead?” Voldemort prompted teasingly, the words clipped in that odd accent of his. “Come here, then. I’m sure you’ll taste infinitely better than this _trash._ ” The words were said with that horrid compulsion technique that almost made Harry say his name the night before and every muscle in Harry’s body tensed as it fought the demand. Harry began to shake with the effort of forcing his feet to stay on the floor, his knees nearly collapsing as his body tried to approach the pentagram and he fought the impulse with sheer will.

“Interesting,” Voldemort hummed, sounding less than amused. “Not many mortals can resist my command. Perhaps you are not as pathetic and useless as I first assumed. But I get the impression you’ll prove me correct in time.”

Harry was so grateful in that instant that his messy fringe covered his forehead, hiding the lightning bolt shaped welt just above his left brow. Part of Harry knew that the reason this demon’s words didn’t completely overcome his self-control was due his established connection to the beast, not that the demon knew it. Harry has spent his entire life with this cursed scar, the heavy black magic somewhat familiar to Harry’s psyche already. Harry almost pities the mortals who previously summoned his creature before him, knowing that they probably were completely dominated by the sheer strength of this demon’s magic.

But then Harry remembers that the people who summon this asshole are normally extremely dark wizards looking to enact their evil schemes (Grindelwald included, the psychopath) and he immediately loses any sense of pity.

Harry finally pulls his frame away from the wall, his knees feeling like they’ve been jellified, and escapes the room before the demon can say another word. The deep reverberating chuckle from the lounge room follows Harry anyway.

* * *

Harry decided that he needed to get the word out to Hermione that Voldemort had already been summoned. He’s sure that she probably already tried to floo in that morning and most likely had been spat back out her floo when the protection wards on his house denied her entry. Harry felt a bit bad about that but he needed Hermione to say as far away from possible from the taint of this Lord. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione to be manipulated into doing something against her will.

Harry stoked up the fire in the kitchen and scattered floo powder over the flames, thinking instead of saying aloud (for who knew how good the damned demon’s hearing was), _Hermione Granger’s Living Room_.

Harry stepped into the flames and found himself stumbling out of a large fireplace, holding his stomach queasily after being spun for what felt like an eternity.

“Harry James Potter,” Hermione’s voice emphasised slowly, coldly.

 _Oh shite_ , Harry thought to himself in terror, blinking rapidly to try and steady his vertigo. _Hermione only says my full name when she’s about two seconds away from castrating me_.

“’Mione, there you are,” Harry replied innocently, looking around and finding the young woman seated in a large wingback chair and staring him down with cold brown eyes.

“Don’t you _dare_ ‘Mione’ me,” Hermione snarled. “What the hell are your protection wards doing up? And why am _I_ not keyed into them?”

Harry winced. “I’m really sorry, it’s just that –” Harry stumbled suddenly, his knees giving out. “Ow,” he muttered to himself as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. He hadn’t really quite realised how barely he was hanging onto the thread of his strength, especially after that showdown with Voldemort.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped, jumping to her feet and scrambling to his side as all traces of her fury dissipated. “What’s going on? Are you alright?” She fretted, pulling him off the floor and helping him to sit on her worn sofa.

“Yeah,” Harry ground out, his stomach turning sharply and closing his eyes to stop the feeling of the room spinning. “I’ll explain in a bit. But first would you mind getting me a bottle of Pepper Up?”

Hermione obeyed immediately and found Harry a bottle of bright orange liquid, her brown eyes molten pools of concern as she hovered over his frame.

Harry downed the liquid and shuddered as steam whistled out of his hears and nose. _Uck_ , he thought irritably, but he did now feel leagues better than he had just a moment ago.

Once a bit of colour returned to his pallid skin, Hermione dropped heavily back into the wingback chair.

“Dare I even ask?” Hermione asked wearily, rubbing her face with her hand.

“I may have gotten myself into a spot of trouble,” Harry answered slowly, looking up at her abashedly.

Hermione groaned loudly. “Why is it _always_ you, Harry? Why does the weirdest shit _always,_ every _damn time_ , go down around you?”

Harry shrugged, frowning. “Seriously, I have been asking that of myself my entire life.”

* * *

“Lord Voldemort summoned itself using an _incomplete_ pentagram and your magical core as an anchor,” Hermione said after nearly ten minutes of tense silence.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed.

“And then you made a deal with it which basically binds you to provide five desserts a day for a year that _meet his standard_ and he’ll invalidate the day if he doesn’t approve of the dessert quality,” Hermione continued, voice sounding distant as if she were speaking over a great divide.

“Uh-huh,” Harry replied.

“So what you’re saying is, there’s a demon lord in your lounge room that you can’t send back to hell because it summoned itself using your magic as an anchor, a demon that knows legilimency and verbal compulsion and can playact being nice and is probably stronger and more equipped than an entire army of Dumbledores?” Hermione whispered.

“Basically,” Harry agreed.

Hermione reached over her coffee table and _thwacked!_ Harry over the head sharply with her hand.

“Ow! What the hell, Hermione?!” Harry barked, rubbing his head grumpily. “It’s not like it’s my fault! We both didn’t expect this!”

“You made a _deal_ with it, Harry! Before even _consulting_ me!” Hermione screamed shrilly. “You idiot! You’re my _best friend_ and how do you think it feels for me to know that you have an extremely illegal demon lord living in your lounge room like some kind of couch surfing fourth horseman of the apocalypse?!”

Harry blinked at Hermione in surprise. “Did you actually just say _couch surfing fourth horseman of the apocalypse?_ ” He parroted blankly. 

Hermione and Harry stared at one another for a moment before they dissolved into giggles.

“Oh my god, the visual,” Harry cackled.

“I don’t know,” Hermione sobbed between laughs, clearly beginning to crack.

They pair continued laughing, perhaps a little hysterically, for a good minute longer before they settled.

“It told me off for buying desserts,” Harry admitted at last.

“You bought desserts?” Hermione asked, surprised. “Well, I guess that’s one work-around to that absurd requirement of high standard.”

“It didn’t even eat them, though. It just stared at the boxes like they were absolute rubbish,” Harry sighed. “I mean, buying desserts is certainly satisfying the bargain but not really in the spirit of things.”

“Who cares?” Hermione scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He knew that he was inevitably going to annoy this demon seeing as they were going to have to see each other for another _three hundred and sixty four days_ , but he’d rather not totally piss it off in case it found a way to come back in the future and extract revenge on himself (or, god forbid, Hermione) for his cheek.

“I know that expression, Potter,” Hermione growled, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “That’s your stupid guilty hero-complex face. You don’t owe this demon _anything_. He killed your parents for some absolutely meaningless deal a couple decades ago and he clearly has no qualms about manipulating the heck out of humans to get what he wants. Just do the bare minimum requirements of the deal and stay as far away from it as possible until your year is up. And you are _not_ staying in that house while it’s there. You need to find somewhere else to live.”

Harry blinked at Hermione in surprise. He knew everything she was telling him already, but it really drove the point home when was said aloud.

“You’re totally right,” Harry agreed, carefully keeping a blank face. It would be terrible for Hermione to know that while agreeing with her, he was slowly coming to realise that he was probably going to need to do a bit more than just the ‘minimum requirements’ of this deal. There was no way he was going to put Hermione in harm’s way just because this demon was a pedantic jerk.

* * *

Harry groaned as he hauled the bags of groceries into his flat, the stench of black magic seeping out of his front door as soon as he opened it. Harry quickly slammed the door shut and hoped his neighbours wouldn’t notice it.

He really needed to open some windows and aerate the damned place.

“Back already? Take these boxes away from me. You’ve kept your end of the bargain, but I don’t want this inferior trash stinking up the room,” a deep voice welcomed him immediately, making Harry roll his eyes.

Harry cast the demon a sidelong glare as he passed the lounge room doorway, catching sight of the creature laying on his back on Harry’s sofa, which the beast somehow managed to pull into his pentagram cage ( _noooo, that’s my favourite piece of furniture in this damned place and now it’s going to stink like sulphur for eternity,_ Harry thought in despair) as it passively read a magazine.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Harry asked in surprise, stopping stock still as he noticed the _Witch’s Weekly_ in the demon’s hands.

“Certainly not hell,” the demon responded drolly, flicking a waxed page with his thumb. “Though it certainly could be used to torture a few souls. I had no idea humans truly believed their futures are based on what month they were born in. Are you a Pisces or Capricorn? If you were born in late December or early February, you’re a Capricorn, which I wholly expect to be accurate as your fortune reads that you will meet a handsome new face this month and fall dashingly in love.”

Harry suddenly remembers that Ginny used to keep those in his flat when they were dating a year or so ago, the girl having just graduating Hogwarts and immediately moving in with him. It was probably laying under his sofa and Harry felt a brief flare of embarrassed over the fact that he hadn’t done much cleaning since she left, eyeing the dusty outline on the floor of where the sofa once was.

The demon’s unnerving eyes wandered over to Harry and he blushed as it focused on the bags in his hands.

“Baking, are we?” The demon asked slowly, eyes flicking up to Harry’s face.

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, escaping down the hallway before he could make an even bigger dork out of himself.

God, this was such as stupid idea. Harry hadn’t baked in years. Well, that’s not quite true. Harry used to cook and bake for Ginny when they were going steady (Harry rolling his eyes at the oldy-timey phrase as soon as he thought it – _Merlin I’m such a tool_ ) but ever since they broke it off, Harry’s not really bothered to do anything like that for himself. It wasn’t like the break up was bad, per se. They had mutually agreed to go their separate ways. But a few months after they broke up, Harry decided to focus all of his efforts into finding Voldemort and then his life kind of was pushed to the wayside for the demon.

And now he had another full year of focusing wholly on Voldemort until he could get that stupid name of the witch or wizard who called the hit (and most importantly, _why_ ) and then Harry was going to hunt the bastard down and make them regret ever being born.

So, yeah. Harry was in it for the long game. But he’s never been particularly good at being patient and he’s already coming apart at the seams.

“Pears,” the demon called out, his deep voice carrying down the hall.

“What?” Harry asked, surprised.

“I like pears. Make me something with pears or don’t even bother at all,” the voice answered, somehow hearing Harry’s question.

Harry snarled. “You’ll eat what I give you and _you’ll like it_ ,” he roared, shaking in outrage at the sheer _cheek_ of this demon.

“Touchy,” the voice responded dryly.

Harry collapsed into a chair, burying his face into his crossed arms resting on the kitchen table top, and groaned loudly.

 _What. A. Dick_.

* * *

Somehow, at some unknown point, Harry fell into a routine. It was difficult making desserts that held up to Voldemort’s standard, but Harry’s nothing if not persistent once he commits to something. It took nearly a week to get his baking skills up to standard, not chancing a voided day while he did so and instead going out to buy desserts at different restaurants each night to fulfil the contract. Harry’s fairly sure the restaurant thinks he’s totally lost his marbles; what else would drive a rich heir to buy desserts every night with an expression of utter misery on his face?

During the first week, Harry warily pushed the takeaway into Voldemort’s containment cage and the demon studiously ignored the delicate boxes. Harry would then come by in the morning and frown when he found the boxes pushed back out of the pentagram, food completely untouched.

 _What a spoiled, entitled prat_. At least the days are still technically counted.

At last, Harry stares down at the five beautifully decorated tarts sitting on his kitchen table top. He’s slightly sticky with sweat from the heat of the kitchen and warm summer eve, covered in flour and he thinks there might baking sugar in his pants (how, he has no idea). But he’s pleased by the quality of the flavour (he’s somehow gained a couple pounds just by tasting his cooking each night and he realises how scrawny he’s gotten) and the food physically looks to be of a fancy bakery standard.

“Give it to me, now.” Voldemort’s voice commands, that annoying as hell compulsion weaved through, as he somehow senses that Harry’s finished.

Harry gripped the tabletop with white knuckles as a dizzy spell rushes through his head, feeling lightheaded and sick at the strength of the spell.

“I was _going to_ , stop with the commands, you ass,” Harry muttered irritably, knowing the demon would hear him anyway despite being a good fifteen metres away from the lounge room doorway.

Voldemort doesn’t bother responding as Harry places the desserts onto a plate, carefully stacked to prevent smudging of the thinly spread jam, and slowly makes his way to the lounge room. Harry aches all over, his muscles tired from constantly stirring and washing and bending over. He used to be quite fit from years of Quidditch practice, but Harry’s let himself go over the last eight months and though his muscles seem ready to bounce back from the new exertion, Harry knows it’ll take a couple weeks to build some kind of stamina.

Voldemort clearly was going for a nonchalant façade, as he was laying down on Harry’s absconded sofa (Harry’s still a bit bitter about that) and doesn’t bother to look up at Harry’s entrance. The demon’s reading _another_ copy of _Witch’s Weekly_ and Harry has no idea where the bastard’s getting them from.

“About time, human. I was starting to wonder if you’d ever emerge from that kitchen,” Voldemort comments slyly, still not bothering to look up from the magazine. Harry can just make out that the demon is reading a quiz on how to tell if _He’s Just That Into You_. Harry rolls his eyes.

“Take the plate or I’ll throw it all out the window.” Harry stated drolly, wondering why the _hell_ he’s gone to so much effort for such a twat.

Voldemort’s eyes flicker up at the threat, clearly hearing the sincerity in Harry’s voice, and rose elegantly from the sofa. He stepped forward towards the invisible barrier (Harry tensing his muscles to stop himself from flinching back) and reached out his hand expectantly, one eyebrow cocked in bemusement. Harry warily pressed the plate into the pentagram, the action only causing a tiny ripple of gold when it passes through the barrier, and Voldemort snatched it quickly.

Harry let go in surprise when his hand was nearly dragged through the barrier, not expecting Voldemort to grab so quickly.

“Watch it,” Harry snapped, holding his hand to his chest. His fingertips had actually _gone through the barrier_ for a brief second, the pads of his fingers tingling wildly, and frowned at Voldemort’s viciously amused expression.

The demon stared down at the plate, eyes hooded and expression indecipherable. He delicately picked up the top tart, no smaller than size of Harry’s palm per their deal, and decorated with thinly curled slices of pear and powdered sugar. Voldemort then flickered his eyes to Harry as he brought the pastry to his lips and bit down, tearing a small piece of the sweet dessert and savouring it briefly before swallowing. A slight smirk quirked Voldemort’s lips, a pale tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he studied Harry intently.

Harry watched all of this through wide eyes, feeling a little disjointed and rather embarrassed by the - the – well. The _obscene_ display. _Who even eats like that?_ Harry thought to himself in half-hysterics, wondering what precisely Voldemort thought he was playing at.

“Better,” Voldemort praised softly, gazing down at Harry through thick eyelashes, an odd expression on his sharp features.

Harry felt a blush bloom across his face so quickly that he nearly swayed from the sudden change of his blood pressure.

“B-b- _better_?” Harry stuttered, embarrassed by the pitch of his voice and taking another step back from the pentagram, completely unsure _what_ this fluttering feeling was. “You had the option of eating desserts most humans only _dream of_ for seven days and _this_ is better than that for you?”

“Of course, my little summoner,” Voldemort answered slyly, leaning his forearm against the pentagram barrier and his forehead against that, the sharp tips of his horns scratching the shield. His face glowed briefly with the hue of the golden ward, eyes sparkling mirthfully. “There’s nothing better than homemade baking, especially when the special ingredient is _love._ ”

Harry’s eyebrows drew together and he frowned. “I didn’t make _anything_ with love, asshole,” he snapped, feeling completely out of sorts and taken aback. _What the hell is wrong with him today?_ Harry thought disjointedly, feeling light-headed.

“Not yet,” Voldemort crooned, hellfire eyes capturing Harry and holding him immobile. “But you will be. For now, I’ll have to settle on the taste of your magic. And how delicious it is,” he added, that horrible tongue flickering over his bottom lip once more.

Harry blushed even deeper (if that were possible) and he swiftly evacuated the lounge room, the sudden tension overwhelming and _unbearable._

In an instant, Harry was escaping out his front door and slamming it swiftly shut, resting his back against the cool wood and mind spinning as he quickly inhaled fresh, untainted air.

 _What the fuck_? He thought, completely scrambled, blush still deep and strong. _What the fuck was that?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oblivious Harry is my favourite Harry. ALSO Chapter 3 will have a bit of touching (woohoo), which I'm not entirely sure if it's still M territory or E, so I'll put up a warning before I post it :)


	3. The Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry runs into an old friend and Voldemort is very unimpressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So there is a bit of action in this one and I must admit that I'm not terribly sure if this is M rated to E rated, so your opinion would be appreciated if you think I should change the rating :) I don't normally write scenes like this and it was quite hard, so please do be kind ;___; Otherwise, I hope you enjoy and onward to the story!

Harry decided after the most recent episode with Voldemort to keep as far as physically away from the creature without being too unbearably rude. Harry continued making sweets for the creature, from strawberry shortcake to rhubarb pie, with efficient and dedicated single-mindedness. As the seasons changed, so did the desserts as Harry worked through every recipe he owned with alarming speed. Though he did luck out, with Voldemort occasionally demanding a repeat – otherwise, Harry knew he would be in trouble by the end of the year.

Harry also made sure to leave the house after baking and tidying, pushing the plate of desserts into the pentagram with a spell and quickly hopping away. Harry found it simply too easy to be lured into conversation with Voldemort; while the demon is fascinating, intelligent and knowledgeable beyond compare, Harry finds himself intimidated by the powerful being. He feels drawn to it beyond reason and, if Harry were to be completely honest with himself, he found himself growing a bit affectionate of the rude, charming devil in his living room. So instead of actually addressing the issue head on, Harry finds himself suppressing blushes and escaping the house at every opportunity he finds.

Part of Harry knows that he once would have been wholly embarrassed by his cowardice, but that was before he met Lord Voldemort. So Harry continues on his merry way, stays the heck out of Voldemort’s, and everything seems to be running smoothly, more or less.

That was, at least, until three months into their agreement.

“I’m bored,” Voldemort sighed as Harry offered the demon a plate of spiced pumpkin pie à la mode.

“Eat your pie,” Harry muttered grumpily. He had not slept well the last week. It was the anniversary of his parent’s death in tomorrow, an anniversary that often brought with it not only trouble but a headache that would certainly last a week. Every single Halloween Harry had ever experienced always ended one way: with a lot of screaming, his head nearly shorn off, and a terrible memory to haunt his dreams. Fun.

“Are you alright?” Voldemort then asked softly, suddenly by the barrier and peering down at Harry with concern.

Harry looked up at the creature, just a few feet away, and wonders why it even bothers to playact like this. Harry thinks part of the demon likes being seen as attractive and kind and affectionate, if only to make it easier to manipulate his subjects.

“It’ll be the nineteenth anniversary of your summoning and sacking of Britain tomorrow,” Harry replied. “Aren’t you going to celebrate?”

Voldemort snorted delicately, rolling his eyes. “That… What not my proudest moment. I must say, though, that it had been a few hundred years since my last summoning and I hadn’t expected quite so many changes. What do you humans call it – the Industrial Age? The Enlightenment? All very exciting,” Voldemort drawled.

Harry stared at Voldemort, eyebrows drawn together. “Not your proudest moment?” Harry repeated dully, a little too numb to be furious. Voldemort had struck down Harry’s parents on Halloween when he was just one, murdering them in cold blood.

According to Dumbledore, who was somehow the leading authority on the story, Voldemort had murdered his father, James, the moment the man opened the door. Then he went after Harry. His mother begged to spare her child’s life, begged Voldemort to take hers instead. Voldemort offered to spare her life, in exchange for her baby. But she refused, so he cut her down with vicious glee. Then Voldemort went after Harry – and that’s where the story went dark, apparently all that Dumbledore could find.

Of course, Harry knows there’s more to the story and if Dumbledore were to know the first half of the tale, he knows the wizened wizard knows the rest. But Dumbledore has a history of withholding information until the exact moment it would be most impactful to reveal it, so Harry’s not holding his breath on the old headmaster helping him out. He does like Dumbledore, in a distant, grandfatherly affectionate kind of way. But Harry knows the old man is a bit dotty and from a different era; the man struggles to empathise with people from Harry’s time and likes to play his own manipulative games to pass the time.

Harry realised with a start that he had zoned out while Voldemort stared at him, eyes locked with the creature as he thought. Harry flinched, looking down quickly, wondering what Voldemort had seen in his mind.

“I was… Too quick to act,” Voldemort replied softly, almost endearingly, as he answered Harry’s question. Harry’s mind raced to catch up to their conversation, having forgotten what he said last.

“Okay,” Harry mumbled to the floorboards, wondering what compelled Voldemort to even talk about such a subject.

“And what reason do you have for wanting to know the summoner’s identity?” Voldemort asked, leaning against the golden wall between Harry and the demon Lord.

“That’s hardly any of your business,” Harry snapped, but it was without any heat. Harry felt so very drained, having been busy cooking and cleaning and trying to upkeep and maintain his social life to avoid worrying Hermione and his friends and his godfather. Not to mention, the constant strain of their secret link kept Harry rather subdued; the demon didn’t pop back and forth between hell very often (Harry suspected the demon was worried about destroying his anchor), but the demon did take enough magic to wear Harry down.

“You aren’t looking so very well, summoner,” Voldemort replied, eyes hooded and an odd smirk on its face. “You look like you could use a nap.”

The demon's tone was so very soft and gentle. Part of Harry knew that there was something odd happening, probably a compulsion spell undercutting the demon's words. He felt weak on his feet and dazed, but at the same time... Protected, like he was wrapped in a large warm blanket.

“Come here,” Voldemort said and, before Harry could stop himself, he did.

* * *

Harry awoke an unknown amount of time later on his sofa in his lounge room, warm and relaxed and content. Though he gently drifted into awareness, he kept his eyes closed as he savoured the nap. It had been so very long since he had slept like this, dreamless and warm and without awaking in a cold sweat. Harry stretched lightly, back pressing more deeply into the warm backing, and he considered going back to sleep.

That was, of course, until Harry remembered exactly where in his lounge room that his sofa was currently located.

Harry’s eyes flew open at the same time as he leapt from the sofa, which turned out to be a mistake as Harry hadn’t paid attention to where he was going and ended up lurching off the sofa and falling onto the floor. With a groan, he sat up slowly and rubbed his head, which had sustained a rather painful bang.

“Dainty, aren’t you?” Voldemort said, his amused sarcasm striking Harry deep.

Harry slowly turned, eyes wide as saucers and face pale as parchment, and saw that Voldemort was pressed lengthwise against the sofa, eyes narrowed in cruel amusement as his sharp nails tapped the fabric.

Harry realised the warm and firm backing of the sofa hadn’t, in fact, been the sofa at all, but rather the chest of a demon Lord.

Harry felt his blood pressure skyrocket spectacularly and white sparks exploded before his eyes, the panic setting in deep.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Voldemort snorted, rolling his eyes. “I _promise_ I didn’t touch you inappropriately or hurt you, little summoner. Though, I must say, that’s a rather _fascinating_ scar you have on your forehead. Tell me, have you had it for long?”

Harry’s mouth gaped briefly as he fished for words and failed, his lips moving soundlessly as he sat sprawled on the floor of scorched hardwood.

“ _You remind me of someone I met here last time,”_ Voldemort then whispered, a look of sly cheek reflecting in his eyes as he hissed. “ _Tell me, do I know you?”_

Desperate to not be found out, Harry replied without thinking, “ _You probably met my parents_.”

And then Harry froze, realising what he’d done.

When he was very young, Harry had met a small, sassy little garden snake at No. 4 Privet Drive. It had spoken to him rather excitably and had been very pleased at its ability to communicate with Harry. Harry had not even noticed that he had been speaking in another language, for it came so very naturally and easily to Harry as if it were English. Of course, that was before Dudley found the tiny little snake and promptly killed it as a means to torture Harry.

The experience had left Harry so horrified that he kept the ability to himself thereafter. He had later discovered at Hogwarts that such a language was explicitly and exclusively used only by high ranking demons, a language that could not be learned but rather inherited. Harry wisely kept his ability to speak the demon tongue secret on the advice of a worried Hermione, knowing that making such knowledge public would probably result in a, for lack of a better term, literal witchhunt.

“Mine,” Voldemort breathed, eyes glowing bright. “ _It was true. You are mine.”_

Harry did precisely the only thing he could think of in that exact moment. He released his magic from its confines with a rather explosive jolt, shocking the air with fierce electricity as if a lightning bolt had struck his lounge room, and he fled on foot as Voldemort recovered from the distraction.  

To his merit, Voldemort didn’t bother to stop Harry on his way out, instead watching Harry escape with bright, hellfire eyes.

* * *

Harry sat at The Fox Hole, a filthy and poorly reputable pub, and slowly drank himself stupid. _Well_ , _more stupid,_ he thought to himself with despair. He had _one job_. Bake the damned demon its treats and stay the _hell_ out of its way.

Harry had managed to bake the demon treats and get _very much_ in its way.

_Oh, Godric_ , Harry thought to himself as he took another swig of ale, _This will literally be the end of both me and every human ever. He’ll never leave now that he knows what I am_.

“Harry?” A tentative voice asked over the roar of the evening pub crowd, familiarity and warm.

Harry looked up quickly and blinked in surprise at the sight of Ginny Weasley, the girl standing before him with a pint of ale of her own.

“Ginny,” Harry breathed in surprise, perhaps a little tipsily.

“Merlin, Harry, it’s been ages!” Ginny laughed. “Actually, over a year now, isn’t that right?”

Harry quickly gestured for Ginny to join him at his table, pushing out a stool. “Shite, a year. That’s right. Could you believe that I’ve only just been finding Witches Weekly stashed away in my house?”

Ginny burst into giggles as she took a seat. “I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to find them! Weren’t you always a bit of a clean freak?”

Harry sobered slightly at Ginny’s words, knowing they weren’t meant in cruelty but rather jest, yet they stung him all the same. Clean freak. Harry realised that he may be a bit more tipsy than originally thought if such offhanded comments wounded him so.

“Anyway,” Ginny continued, obliviously, “What has the great Harry Potter been up to for the last year?”

The two caught up over drinks over the next few hours, the witch waving off her friends with a wink and Harry doing his best to withhold mentioning the existence of Voldemort while keeping his story straight and not falling off his barstool. It was lovely to catch up with Ginny, but Harry was reminded why they decided to dissolve their relationship in the first place. The girl was full of light and life and spark, but there was nothing between them other than camaraderie and friendship.

“So then dad turns to the Minister of Foreign Trade and actually says, get this, ‘If you wanted a charmed bow tie that would make you irresistible, Shepherds, then you should have focused on NEWT Charms instead of writing love letters to Mary Jenkins during third period’,” Ginny howled, nearly crying with laughter.

“ _Arthur Weasley_ ,” Harry whispered reverently, “Actually told off the Minister for Foreign Trade for trying to charm his own bowtie and instead accidentally unleashing all sorts of mis-charmed artefacts into muggle society? What a wild ride that must have been.”

“Morgana, I know,” Ginny replied, still giggling. “Dad was so pleased with himself. Apparently, he had something of a rivalry with Shepherds during their years at Hogwarts and dad was properly beside himself with glee when assigned to the case.”

“Gods, can you imagine if I got something like that on Malfoy,” Harry sighed, eyes going glazed at the thought. “I would milk it for every drop of satisfying humiliation.”

Ginny burst into another round of giggles and they both wound down, the bar’s music lowering and the lights dimming.

“Looks like last call,” Ginny commented, glancing around the emptying pub.

Harry blinked in surprise. It was almost midnight and he was shocked that nearly six hours had passed since his arrival in a huff. The time spent with Ginny had flown by and he had felt his own worries melt away, simply enjoying being in the company of a good friend while sharing a pint.

“Should we get out of here?” Ginny asked, a smirk adorning her face.

Harry quickly nodded and stood, then regretted it immediately. “That’s… Not great,” Harry told himself as he swayed on his feet and gripped the tabletop for stability.

“The great Harry Potter, defeated by weak ale,” Ginny chuckled. “Come on, you light weight, let’s get you home.”

Harry nodded, sighing as he shrugged on his overcoat. “But we have to walk,” Harry stated firmly. “If I floo or even think about attempting apparation, I think I might vomit.”

“Here, here!” Ginny crowed, linking their arms and spinning them in the direction of Diagon Alley. “Thank Godric you have a local flat, otherwise we might both be in a bit of trouble.”

The two stumbled into the cool autumn air and slowly made their way to Harry’s apartment, though not without a few stops and a quick duck into a small shop for a snack.

At last, Harry stood outside his front door, back pressed against the wood as Ginny stood close, smelling of rose water.

Harry remembers this smell, remembers how it used to permeate his house and linens. He likes the smell, if only for the scent of roses. Then suddenly, without warning, Ginny’s lips are against his and her cool hands are on his neck. Harry blinks at the young woman in surprise, looking down slightly to see her freckled nose and eyes closed softly as she pressed against him.

Harry put his hands against her shoulders and gently pushed her away, her lips coming way with a soft _puck_ and her eyes opening quickly.

“Oh,” Ginny said, blinking at him.

“Shite,” Harry replied.

“I thought – ” Ginny began.

“No, I completely –” Harry started at the same time.

They both stopped talking then stared at one another.

“A quick shag?” Ginny offered candidly, eyes glittering mischievously.

“Uh,” Harry replied dumbly.

“So that wasn’t even on the table, was it?” Ginny then chuckled. “Oh, sweet, annoying, oblivious Harry. How many times have I fallen into this well-meaning but unintentional honey trap?”

Harry blushed. He recalls that Ginny’s had a crush on him ever since second year and he genuinely hadn’t thought that the evening was going like this. But of course it was, looking back now, and Harry wonders if he’s the only one in the entire world stupid enough to not only accidentally lead on a lovely girl like Ginny Weasley, but then deny her a shag when requested. He must be an absolute idiot.

“Don’t you dare,” Ginny then warns, wagging a finger in his face. “I don’t want to hear it. I love you, you massive dork. But a shag doesn’t mean anything and I don’t want to deal with the inevitable awkwardness that will follow, so let’s leave it at that. I’ve got a portkey with me, so I really should be off.”

Harry sighed with relief at Ginny’s lack of offence, her stern but kind demeanour assuring him that she wasn’t hurt.

“Goodnight, Ginny,” Harry smiled, leaning his forehead against hers. “And we really should catch up more often.”

“Yeah,” the girl whispered, leaning back. “Hit me up next time you’re in Puddington; the practice quidditch pitch is open just about all the time.”

Harry smiled at her gently and nodded, watching the girl wink at him. Ginny then grabbed her necklace and whispered a word. In an instant, she swirled into a void and he was left alone in the hallway to his apartment.

“You're an absolute idiot,” Harry sighed to himself, leaning his head against the door.

Then Harry started in surprise, remembering what exactly was on the other side of this door. He completely forgot to tell Ginny that he’d moved and, by instinct alone, the pair had come back to the apartment they had once shared but Voldemort now occupied.

A Voldemort that now knew Harry was his anchor.

Harry groaned miserably.

But the closest floo open this time of night was behind this door and maybe Voldemort had gone back to hell (wishful thinking, as Harry hadn’t felt any pull on his magic beyond normal) and Harry certainly didn’t feel like walking the forty five minutes required to his new home.

So Harry pulled out his keys and quickly slipped into the entrance hall, but not before tripping on his entrance rug and making a bloody racket as he fell into the hallway.

“Everything alright?” An amused voice, deep and sinister, echoed through the apartment.

Harry stayed down on the rug, wondering what had happened in a previous life to make him born in this one as such a moron.

“I can smell the alcohol from here,” Voldemort snarked. “And – ” Then Voldemort cut off and all was silent.

Harry wasn’t exactly in the mood to put up with whatever Voldemort was going to say next. He just had to make it past the open doorway, to the floo, and then he was free to go home and lick his wounds in peace.

Harry inched against the hallway wall, using the wainscoting as support as he quietly neared the lounge room entrance. He stopped at the door jam, wondering if he should leap across the space. Harry frowned, staring at the four-foot gap to freedom.

And then, like a bad scene from a muggle horror film, Voldemort curled around the doorframe and smirked at Harry, those scarlet eyes lidded and forearm resting against the door jam as he towered over Harry.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” Voldemort asked, tilting his head and staring down at Harry through thick eyelashes.

“Er – ” Harry said, mind blank and in shock at the sight of Voldemort well outside of his prescribed pentagram.

“Drink this, you idiot,” Voldemort sighed, conjuring a vial from think air and pressing the unstoppered bottle into Harry’s hand. At his slightly mutinous expression, Voldemort added, “Now, or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

Harry frowned but obeyed, not wanting to make any mistakes now that Voldemort had suddenly found himself uncontained, and was surprised to taste a sobering hangover potion.

Then there was a hand lacing his and tugging him into his long-abandoned bedroom, Harry dumbly following the demonic being. He was then pushed onto his own bed, the soft fabric warm and smelling oddly like cedar and cinnamon, a nicer smell than the rosewater still clinging his being.

And suddenly, without warning, Voldemort was joining Harry, laying down on the bed and arms wrapping firmly around the smaller man. Harry squeaked in surprise, back pressed firmly against Voldemort’s chest and his legs tangling with the long legs of the demon Lord.

“ _Go to sleep_ ,” Voldemort whispered in that strange language. “ _I’ll deal with you in the morning_.”

Against his better judgement (which seemingly was becoming a habit), Harry closed his eyes and obeyed.

* * *

For the second time in two days, Harry awoke warm, content, and feeling rather pleased with himself. He floated in the middle between sleep and awake, mind slightly worn from the suppressed echo of a hangover. Harry tastes hangover potion on his lips and prays his gratitude to the heavens for whomever may be listening that such a potion was created. Without the potion, he would probably still be a little bit drunk with a heck of a migraine and nausea threatening to upend his entire weekend. With the potion, he just felt slightly tired but completely and utterly sobered.

Harry then remembered, with a start, where he found such a potion.

_Voldemort handing him the vial, looking equal parts amused and murderous. Harry drinking the vial and being led to bed with the demon._

Harry tensed sharply and focused on his surroundings, eyes still closed. Pressed against his back was that now familiar firm warmth of a chest and something which felt rather alike an arm was slung over the dip of his waist, pulling him close to said chest. Harry felt the slow inhale and exhale of that chest against his back and something nestled into his hair which felt rather suspiciously like another person’s face.

“Rise and shine,” Voldemort murmured into Harry’s hair, deep tenor vibrating through Harry’s chest and making him shudder, though it wasn’t from fear. From what, Harry wasn’t exactly sure.

“Hi,” Harry replied instead, unsure what exactly he needed to do to get out of this situation.

Harry was slowly rolled over as Voldemort moved back and he looked up into the demon’s unnatural eyes, the creature resting his chin on his palm, horns curled rather sharply this morning, and an expression of sly amusement on his face.

“You smell like a girl,” Voldemort said shortly.

Harry opened his mouth to protest because, well, _rude_. But then he remembered. Ginny. Oh, sweet Merlin, that was not a great memory. Harry’s mouth closed with a snap.

“Thought so,” Voldemort snipped, lips pursing. “How rude. Here I am, leaving all kinds of hints and being all rather polite, if I may say so myself. And you go off and snog a girl while I try to give you space. I never really did need to be in that stupid pentagram cage in the first place and, to be honest, I was mostly humouring you so that you wouldn’t blow up the damned apartment block to send me back to Hell and risk me ever finding my tie to this plane.

“I’ll let you know, I think I’ve been rather well behaved, especially for someone who isn’t exactly tied to this apartment now that you’ve gone and revealed yourself to be the anchor. For being who I am and the reputation that follows, I have been extremely patient and polite,” Voldemort said, cultured accent clipped and a perfectly manicured brow arched in contempt.

Harry stared up at Voldemort in surprise. For someone with such a sharp tongue, that lashing was rather – well, _tame._

“Hints?” Harry then asked, completely flabbergasted. “At what, pray tell?”

Voldemort stared down at Harry with such exasperation in that moment that Harry felt rather like falling through the bed and subsequent floor.

“You imbecile. _This,_ ” Voldemort hissed pointedly, and then he leant down and kissed Harry.

It was unlike any kiss Harry had ever experienced in his entire life. Unlike kissing Ginny and Cho (admittedly his only two sources of comparison), this was sharp edged and fierce but slow in a way that was somehow more intense than anything he’d ever done before, a sure tongue pressing past his lips and mapping his mouth.

Before Harry could really acknowledge what, precisely, he thought he was doing, he felt his own hands wind into thick hair and come into contact with horns protruding slightly from the sides of Voldemort’s head. He scratched his nails lightly against the seam of the demon’s head and horns in response to a particularly wicked movement of Voldemort’s lips that made his toes curl, and Voldemort groaned deeply against Harry’s lips in encouragement.

Long fingers pressed into Harry’s sides as Voldemort shifted, pulling Harry on top of him and swallowing the human’s exhale of surprise at the movement. Harry felt himself blushing, the kiss never breaking, as he straddled the demon and felt himself pressed against a tall, toned frame. Those hands then wandered south and if Harry thought he was blushing before, it was nothing compared to the hot flush trailing down his neck at the feel of sharp nails running down his arse and thighs.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered against Voldemort’s lips, hands now gripping the back of Voldemort’s neck for support. Harry softly rested his lips against the demon’s mouth and savoured the odd connection they shared, feeling both unsettled and deeply content.

Voldemort hummed his agreement and pressed up into Harry’s mouth once more, kisses short and biting but sweet in a peculiar way that made Harry’s stomach flutter fiercely.

“Maybe later,” Voldemort replied softly against Harry’s lips. “But right now, I’m perfectly happy with continuing this exchange.”

At the word _exchange,_ Harry reeled back and found himself sitting low on the demon’s hips, a little mortified to find a hard, solid heat just under his arse but doing his very damned best to not address it nor Voldemort’s sharp inhale as Harry settled.

“Exchange?” Harry clarified, hands braced against the demon’s chest.

Voldemort rolled his eyes at Harry’s question, bringing his hands up to lace under his head and looking at Harry with an arched brow. Harry frowned down at the demon, who looked completely content with taking up Harry’s bed and life as if it were his birthright.

“Everyone knows what touching a demon means and you’ve let me, quite willingly might I add, touch you as I please,” Voldemort replied in a pleased drawl. “And magic exchanges hands in the trade of pleasure, no matter the medium. The more pleasure you feel, the stronger the exchange grows.”

Harry realised he felt tired but not nearly as badly as before. Voldemort was using _this_ , whatever this was, to pull energy from Harry instead from the anchor in his scar. Unlike the scar, though, this wasn’t as exhausting and draining.

“You’re using me physically to consume my energy?” Harry whispered, annoyed to find his voice rough and hoarse. “That’s a bit fucking rude.”

Voldemort snarled and flipped them in the blink of an eye, pinning Harry’s arms above his head and Harry’s legs wrapping in surprise around the demon’s hips. Voldemort pressed down viciously and Harry could feel the demon’s arousal against his own, mouth parting at the sudden movement and a surprised moan pulled from his lips at the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his veins.

“I am what I am, _Harry_ ,” Voldemort whispered coldly, eyes alight and glowing with newly stolen magic. “I’m a demon, you idiot. And I take what I want. Luckily for you, what you offer is only ripe for harvesting if freely and willingly given.”

Harry barely had a moment to realise that he had not yet told the demon his name before he was being kissed again. But, unlike before, this kiss was controlling and vicious and dominating and Harry found his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he arched into Voldemort’s touch, toes once more curling as Voldemort ground into Harry brutally.

“You _like_ me being cruel to you, little summoner,” Voldemort hissed as he rolled his hips, biting his way from Harry’s jaw to the base of his neck as the younger man released a startled moan. “And I plan on fully and quite happily living up to your expectations of an evil demon Lord. But not without first getting my dues. You are mine, little summoner. You’ve been mine since before you were even born and you didn’t even know it, yet.”

Harry could hardly process the words being whispered into his ear, instead clenching his jaw as Voldemort used one hand to keep his wrists pinned and another slipping under his shirt to tease his sensitive skin.

 “V-Vol-” Harry stuttered, feeling himself unravelling under Voldemort’s hands and mouth and slightly hating himself for being too far gone to give one iota of a fuck.

Voldemort pulled Harry’s hands up to the demon’s head, encouraging his trembling fingers to wrap around the base of those terribly sharp horns and continuing his attack with even more vengeance. Harry held on for dear life, very much aware that he was playing straight into this demon’s hands but completely helpless and utterly unwilling to stop it.

“ _You’re mine, all very much mine and I will slowly and painstakingly prove it to you until you never doubt me again,”_ Voldemort hissed, the serpentine language sounding so very different coming from a person than a snake and doing admittedly wicked things to Harry’s already fragile state of being. Harry cried out as he felt sharp teeth bite down on his neck and a hard length pressing against his own with unapologetic viciousness and then he was arching and – and – _Merlin_ –

“Wait –” Harry asked, helpless, feeling himself too close for comfort as he dug his nails into the demon’s scalp.

“ _Now, my little summoner_ ,” Voldemort encouraged, nails racking down Harry’s chest and those teeth sinking deeper into the soft skin just above Harry’s collarbone.

Harry felt himself fall off the edge of the world, coming apart with a whispered, reverent, “ _Fuck.”_ Harry drifted down from his high after a few starry moments, eyes glazed and mouth softly open and feeling very much like he had been precisely and deliberately unwound.

“Oh, sweet little summoner,” Voldemort sighed against Harry’s parted mouth, softly kissing him with a tenderness that Voldemort had no right possessing. The demon rested his forehead against Harry’s brow, those sharp horns framing Harry’s face just within his peripheral vision, though the young man found himself instead trapped under the sharp amusement of Voldemort’s crimson stare. “You and I – well, we’re simply going to have _so much fun._ ”


	4. The Consuming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Voldemort ponders the past and relishes the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I've never done a Voldemort POV before but thought - hell, why not? This is a fair bit shorter than the earlier chapters and is more of an epilogue than anything. I hope you enjoy :)

Voldemort watched his little human sleep in his arms as he rested against the headboard of the large bed, running long fingers through those wild, untameable locks. He gently traced a sharp black nail across the human’s forehead to pull back a lock of hair, revealing Harry’s lightning bolt scar – the evidence of their tie to one another.

There was a story Voldemort had yet to tell Harry, a story that the young man certainly deserved to know though it was hardly one of Voldemort’s favourites. Many years ago, around the era Harry had been born, Voldemort became aware of a Prophecy.

The prophecy was bleated to him by a rather greasy and impolite wizard who had summoned Voldemort and demanded payment for delivering said prophecy in the form of murdering the infant form of his prophesised equal and its father.

According to the memory of the man who originally heard the damned thing from the seer directly, the prophecy claimed that a human would one day summon him for the last time. That the human would be marked his equal, would be his end and his beginning, his alpha and omega. The human was to be born in July (already a year passed since the miserable wizard had heard the prophecy), to be born to parents who had defied Voldemort before. The greasy wizard had discovered the child in question, having known the parents who had worked with that annoying Dumbledore to arrest Gellert Grindelwald (his last summoner) and have Voldemort vanished from the human plane.

It was all very insulting.

Voldemort found himself insurmountably furious that, after thousands of years of working to become what he was and elevate himself to the highest rank of immortal being, a _human_ that was not even able to _speak_ yet was supposed to be his equal.

Voldemort decided, perhaps a little impulsively, to simply take the prophecy regurgitated by that imbecilic wizard for granted and hunted down a man and his newborn infant. He was to kill the child and its father but leave the mother untouched.

With ease, Voldemort located his target’s home and obliterated the wizard who answered the door with extreme prejudice. The woman, however, was more difficult. She was everything a demon could want in a human summoner: iron-willed, intelligent, fierce, protective, and – above all else – ferociously strong. When the woman refused to get out of his way, Voldemort kept true to his deal with the summoner. He did not touch a single hair on her body, and yet she fell dead all the same.

The child, though. Well, that was a story onto itself. It stared at him with those enormous green eyes and a sadness incomprehensible to a demonic being such as himself. And, as he cast the final spell on the stupid, weak little creature, something horrible happened. What precisely, Voldemort wasn’t sure. But suddenly he found himself on the curb outside the house as it sealed him out, blood and death magic unexpectedly warding the house and locking him out.

_The death of the woman_ , Voldemort had realised at the time. She used her own murder as a sacrifice in a death ritual to protect her child from his rage. Voldemort had been furious beyond belief. Though he had attempted to complete the deal with the greasy, revolting man, and his efforts were considered enough to satisfy the deal, Voldemort had not once in his entire career not finished a job.

As such, Voldemort decided to disintegrate a fair portion of England while the greasy, horrid man sobbed weakly upon hearing the death of the redheaded woman, the pitiful creature taken in by the ancient Headmaster Dumbledore. Voldemort did not feel a single drop of compassion for the disgusting human. Clearly, its actions had been driven by greed and lust and envy and, for that, the object of the man’s affections paid the ultimate price.

When nothing he did allowed Voldemort access to that child, he decided to retreat back to hell, ego bruised and pride strung out. Little did he know that he would not be summoned again for many years and, when he was, only by the very skin of his teeth. If it hadn’t been for the raven-haired boy and his genius friend, whom Voldemort had yet to meet, Voldemort now knows he probably would have been forgotten to history.

It was upon returning to Hell that Voldemort realised he had created an anchor back on Earth. There was a connection, a link that kept the door open slightly to the human plane to him alone. Thinking back, he realised that perhaps he had managed to touch that little annoying human, the one with the sad green eyes, to scar it and claim him as taken. Voldemort could feel its fluttering magic, like a little flame that glowed in the night. He could very hardly try to summon himself back to earth now, as the magic required would kill his anchor. But – _oh_ , but _one day_. He was going to be summoned and he was going to exploit that connection for everything it was worth.

At last, after waiting what felt like a millennia, Voldemort felt his summoning pentagram tingling in the human world. And tingling – and then tingling some more, for _months_ without actual completion of the pentagram. He had wondered what was taking the damned humans so long to complete the design. Once the pentagram had been drawn and activated, he would be able to pull himself back to the human plane and unleash his unholy fury once more. Admittedly, he had been nearly insane with impatience when it was _almost finished_ and yet the summoners stopped, one major line away from his resurrection.

Somehow, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Voldemort reached through the worlds with powers he should not know (and perhaps riding the wave of that tiny, glowing link he held to his human) and finished the damaged pentagram for his summoners, fully prepared to punish the nasty, lazy little humans for the morons that they were. Voldemort had been fairly surprised that his anchor, whose age he couldn’t even begin to guess (for his grasp on human time was tenuous at best), actually survived the summoning and Voldemort felt rather annoyed with himself for nearly killing his only chance of true freedom.

And then, at his feet, lay quite possibly the most beautiful and innocent looking human Voldemort had laid ever his eyes on. And, for someone who was several thousand years old with a summoning history going further back than most human history books, that was quite a feat.

This little creature, not exactly small by human standards but petite by demon, was just a fierce and bold and iron willed as that redheaded woman. And his eyes were just the same, quietly daring and unmoveable – and green like a jade. Unlike the challenge of the redheaded woman, though, Voldemort felt his blood stir in the face of the boy’s confidence, interest peaked when the human rose his chin and refused to bend to his will. It had been near a millennium since a mortal managed to completely brush him off.

_Interesting_ , Voldemort recalled thinking to himself.

And – so sweetly, _adorably –_ the little human actually thought the drawn pentagram would hold the greatest demon to plague the halls of Hell, even when the containment design had been drawn just a touch incorrectly and Voldemort could step out any time he wished. Even if the pentagram _had_ been perfect, Voldemort had long since been able to brush off the human containment magic.

But. There was something… Alluring, about those eyes and the determined set of his jaw. About that strength of will, that strength of character.

Voldemort wanted to snap the little human with his teeth.

And the human refused to share his name with Voldemort, quite a clever little minx, and then had the audacity to call Voldemort’s bluff and demand the demon’s own true name. He’d even found a loophole to Voldemort’s rather snarky deal. That had certainly drawn Voldemort’s attentions. Not many humans were able to look beyond their own noses long enough to see what was directly in front of them. Surprisingly, this little creature was both innocently naïve beyond Voldemort’s comprehension and yet perceptively cunning in ways that Voldemort found occasionally unnerving.

Looking back, Voldemort feels incredibly annoyed for having missed the multiple hints at the beginning, like there had been a row of muggle neon signs pointing in blinking arrows directly toward the wild-haired boy. But Voldemort has never been particularly good at what humans refer to as ‘relationships’ or ‘social cues’, so he breezed past the warning signs and went on his merry way to hunt down his anchor.

The humans had a word for it, something like a ‘horcrux’, but the silly creatures were so terrified of such a thing that it was rarely discussed. As such, Voldemort avoided the term when conducting his brief interactions with humans, knowing it would frighten and scare. While Voldemort is somewhat of a fan of terrorising the humans (if he could dare to make such an understatement), he had a mission to complete and decided to put off his hedonistic ways until he could find his little horcrux.

With ease, Voldemort was able to simply leave the house he was supposed to be tied to whenever his little summoner was out, which was often. He started by investigating the original house of his so called ‘equal’ that he was thrown from so rudely from the first time, but the estate had fallen into significant disrepair.

After considerable tracking, Voldemort found the house the boy had been raised in. Voldemort had stared at that horrid little cookie-cutter house, replicated dozens of times throughout the neighbourhood, so mindbogglingly, utterly boring that Voldemort nearly turned around and vanished himself back to Hell on the spot. If his own anchor were to be even a fraction as devastatingly normal as the neighbourhood suggested, Voldemort decided to send himself back to Hell for eternity if only to escape his miserable fate of being bonded to such an “equal”.

And then Voldemort had the horrifically revolting experience of being introduced to the Dursleys. It was insipidly easy to bypass the house’s blood wards, which were weak and crumbling already, and to charm the horse-like Petunia Dursley into inviting him into the house. Voldemort could not recall the excuse he had given, only that he petrified the insufferable twot as soon as he entered the sanitised house and did a bit of research of his own.

According to the photos and décor, there did not live a green-eyed boy at this house. But Voldemort could _smell_ the child, taste the infant’s imprint in this house. He had been here, had grown up here. There was the scent of those blood wards and accidental magic that reminded him so strongly of the red-haired woman’s sacrifice.

Then Voldemort found The Cupboard.

Simply put, it reminded Voldemort of a time he had largely forgotten, a time very long ago when he himself was an orphan on the human plane of existence. It appeared things had not much improved amongst the human orphans if his own equal were to be treated with such depraved inhumanity. Voldemort also found a room in the upstairs of the house with all kinds of bolts and locks on the outside of the door and what appeared to be a flap at the bottom of the door. Entering the room, Voldemort smelt despair and sweat, memories of pain and deep sadness. Voldemort knows this smell well; he’s infamous in Hell, after all, for being a purveyor of all that is agony and horror.

Seeing as the Dursley family had opted to abandon their own humanity, Voldemort merely granted them their wish and turned the nasty trio into _carons,_ the lowest possible level of demon. Upon his own transformation into the immortal coil, Voldemort himself had haggled to be born a few levels above such a mockery of life, so lowly were the _carons._

However, Voldemort did not feel remotely compelled nor interested in giving an ounce of slack to this Dursley family. Voldemort had sneered in barely contained derision as the low-level demons cowered in muted terror and he dismissed them to Hell, where certainly they would be assigned to work of their suited intelligence. He briefly wondered if the blood fields were in need of dredging.

Voldemort then continued his search, following the boy to a school of magic with wards too ancient not even himself could get through without a fair amount of time, effort, and planning.

But, at last, a quarter into his contract with his little summoner and subsequent research, Voldemort had a _name_.

Harry Potter.

It was rather plebeian, but Voldemort knew he himself could not cast aspersions. After all, his natural born name was not exactly unique, even in this day and age.

It was only upon finding a photo of this Harry Potter, this anchor that could somehow sustain Voldemort on the human realm despite his ruthless abuse of the human’s magical core, that Voldemort realised what an utter and striking idiot he had been.

_Graduates of Hogwarts, from left to right: Susan Bones, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter –_ Voldemort had stopped reading at that point, eyes drawn to the image before him. Staring defiantly back at him, through the thick grain of a black and white wizarding photo, was the confident boy he had waiting for him back at home. He was younger in this photo, by a couple of years, but he held the same shadow in his gleaming eyes as he did even now and there was a casual stance about him that suggested duel training. There were earlier photos of the boy, in which he was thin and gangly and wore rather thick, horrendous reading glasses. But the Harry Potter that Voldemort knew now had grown into himself, removed the barrier obscuring his piercing eyes, and was something of a vision.

_Clever boy_ , Voldemort had thought. _Clever, lovely, annoying little brat._

So Voldemort returned to his containment charms in the little London flat and decided to wait it out, see what was to happen next. Voldemort couldn’t find it within himself to want to murder his little summoner, a dilemma he had not experienced before, so he instead decided to watch.

And what fun it was to tease the human. Voldemort found it effortless to pull Harry into conversation, easily charmed but hard to bullshit. The human would blush deliciously at a complement and could defend his point of view with the cleverness and sneakiness (and sheer bullheadedness) normally reserved for demons.

And then the little human was dropping off pumpkin pie (the dizzyingly delicious smell hard to resist) and looking so very worn and tired that Voldemort felt something _snap_ in him. He then, at that moment, understood the prophecy repeated to him two decades ago.

Harry Potter was Voldemort’s equal because Voldemort had made it so, had exposed the young boy to his demonic magic through their shared link. Through his influence and by tugging on the link for all these years if only to annoy his human anchor, Voldemort had created an equal by means unintentional. The human was going to be the last to summon him because, from now on, Voldemort was going to be able to come and go as he pleased – he would not need to reply to a summon ever again. Harry was his anchor, for now and for eternity. And when Harry died, he would be coming with Voldemort to rule by his side, and there would be no reason for Voldemort to ever go back to Earth. Harry was going to supply Voldemort with all the pleasure and satisfaction that he could ever possibly want, human plane or not.

It had been, in all aspects of the term, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Harry Potter was his Persephone and Voldemort found himself completely delighted to play the part of devilish Hades.

Voldemort pulled that young man to him with every ounce of coercion that he could will, not because he knew Harry would not like his affections but rather was too proud to admit so. And that tired, worn little human so easily submitted, viciously pleasing Voldemort when he let his guard down so quickly. True to his word, Voldemort did not hurt the human. Harry Potter was _his,_ something so very innate and instinctual and _feral_ claiming Harry deep in Voldemort’s being that harming the little summoner had not even entered his mind as a possibility.

But then his silly little human panicked and Voldemort allowed him to leave, knowing that his clumsy, charming Harry would be back, like a moth drawn to a flame. So instead of chasing, Voldemort let him process his own misgivings in peace. No matter how annoyed and angry and irritated they got with one another, somehow there was always that pull bringing them back together.

Ah. But then. That snotty human girl touching what was _his_ really was the absolute end of Voldemort’s proverbial rope after he had been so very damned patient. Unseen, Voldemort had watched as that nasty little troll pressed her lips against Harry, how his human had pushed her away and blushed, but not in pleasure. Something rather alike a coiling cobra was born inside Voldemort’s chest, snapping as he watched Harry send away this girl that he clearly had history with, denying her crudely offered ‘shag’, and instead coming home to _him._ Voldemort had been unable to resist him after that.

Harry Potter was his, a piece of humanity gifted to Voldemort by the fates or gods or whatever there was out there, whether it be a single father waiting for his son or a fornicating Greek man throwing lightning bolts or three women spinning wool – or maybe there nothing at all. But, for some reason, the universe had decided to give him this treasure and he was _never_ letting go.

So Voldemort consumed the human’s magic and made him cry out to his touch and completed the bond, weaving their magic together until there would never be any doubt as to whom this little human belonged. The affection and acceptance would stabilise their connection, would bind them together with soul magic unbreakable. And, as an added benefit, how prettily he sang under Voldemort’s careful attentions.

Voldemort was pulled from his thoughts as the young man in questions stirred in his arms. Voldemort lowered his head to press a kiss to those lips, wanting all scent of that foul girl gone and instead for his human to taste only of Voldemort, always and forever. Those soft lips parted willingly, even in sleep, and Voldemort felt a surge of possessive protectiveness overcome him. There was something enchantingly unstoppable about the way Harry Potter affected Lord Voldemort.

“Tom,” Voldemort whispered, pulling back softly and sounding out the name against Harry’s soft lips. He slid down into the bed, pushing himself until he was eye to eye with the emerald eyed human.

“What?” Harry asked, blearily blinking as he was pulled from a doze. Soft fingers slipped around Voldemort’s waist and rested against the skin of his lower back as Harry pulled close, a touch so familiar and trusting that Voldemort felt the hairs raise on his neck in pleasure.

“My name is Tom Riddle. Well, that’s the best translation I can recall. I forgot how to say it in human language, but I remember it in Parseltongue, so forgive if the translation is a bit muddled,” Voldemort replied softly, delving in for another kiss. And perhaps another after that. Voldemort was feeling rather greedy today.

“Tom,” Harry sighed against Voldemort’s lips.

Voldemort felt himself respond to his human saying his name, feeling so very terribly un-Demonic in that moment. Or, perhaps, extra-Demonic. He wasn’t entirely sure. But whatever that response was, he was going to make Harry repeat his name perhaps a few more times, and perhaps with increasing need.

“My name is Harry,” Harry replied, voice sated and relaxed and doing all kinds of peculiar things to Voldemort’s soul. “But I suppose you already knew that.”

“Ah, but there is power in giving one’s name freely,” Voldemort replied swiftly, nipping at Harry’s bottom lip, moving himself to lay across Harry’s relaxed frame.

“You can have it all,” Harry sighed, eyes closing softly. “All the power you want. Any deal you want, anything you ask for, it’s all yours.”

Voldemort smirked, pressing another kiss to Harry’s lips, before trailing his kisses down Harry’s neck and dipping further, enjoying the soft exclamations pulled from those lips. As Harry’s hand wove into his hair, scratching from the base of his skull to the protrusion of his horns, Voldemort whispered against that soft flesh with fleeting amusement in the secret language they shared, “ _Oh Harry, as if that were ever in question.”_

Harry laughed in response, breathless, and let Voldemort consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! It's been a blast writing something silly and fun and completely AU like this. Thanks so much for your reviews & encouragement - you've been awesome <3


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